It sailed over Darrel’s head, was muffed by Hotchkiss at second, then picked up and sent to first like a streak of greased lightning. It looked, from where Merriwell sat, as though Clancy had beat it out. But the umpire decided otherwise, and the crestfallen Clancy jogged away to the bench.
Merriwell was next.
“Be easy with this one, El,” suggested Bleeker.
“It would be a feather in my cap if I could fan him,” laughed Darrel.
“That’s been done a good many times, Curly,” Merriwell grinned.
The first ball was a strike. It looked a little wide to Frank, and he did not reach for it.
The second ball was a wide one, and so was the third. The fourth ball was just about where Frank wanted it, and he smashed it for a couple of bases.
“Whoop!” roared Barzy Blunt; “we’re off, we’re off! Three tallies, pards! I’ll not be satisfied with anything less than three runs this inning.”
Ballard was the next one up. Merriwell stole third, and he’d have got home if Ballard had given him a chance. But Ballard fouled once back of the home plate, and then struck out.
“That’s awful, Chip,” groaned Ballard, passing the pitcher’s box on his way to center field.